


Project S

by Venchaser



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Coffee Shops, M/M, Slow Build, Summer Camp, Supernatural Beings, Teacher Derek, Teacher Stiles, hale family is alive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-17 09:42:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2305205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venchaser/pseuds/Venchaser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was on a whim Stiles decided to apply for the job of summer camp teacher at Hale’s Summer Camp, a prestigious summer program for the rich and talented. Or that is what he assumes. Stiles has no idea what he got himself into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Advertisment

**Author's Note:**

> I am posting the first little bit of the story I am writing. To see what the feedback is. I'm also looking for a native speaker of English to help me correct to mistakes I tend to make here and there sometimes.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the little excerpt! If you guys like it, let me know please. It would be a motivation for me to keep writing! :)
> 
> This is still a raw version, so I apologize for any bold words or '/'. Sometimes I'm not too sure if the phrasing is okay, or I'm using a fitting adjective.

It all began with a simple advertisement, it could have been defined as a gamble. After all, what did he have to lose? It became a question which became a revelation. Eventually, it grew into a chance, an opportunity. Growth.

The obnoxious popping of bubble-gum made him go insane. That is to say, if he wasn’t already. Something of which he wasn’t too sure about. In front of Stiles sat a skimpy-clothed blonde girl. She was chewing her gum a bit too loud for his taste. Naturally, it would not have been a problem if it was only the gum. However, the heretic performed to most sacrilegious deed any person could do in a library. She was talking. Ear-splitting, boisterous, annoying jabbering. Each syllable ricocheted throughout the library, rushing past the rows of books. Each word a painful stab in the calm air. Assertive hushing, good-willed pleas and dangerous glares were shot back by a condescending look of icy blue. Unfortunately, the librarian was not present, and the maddening girl had claimed the library floor as her private quarters. Absolute rules were enforced.

Apparently, a certain girl named ‘Jessica’ wore a hideous vest yesterday, and the bleach-blonde bimbo who was sitting across Stiles had to report this to the unseen companion. Things took a turn for the scandalous when she started bragging about her sexual escapades from the previous night, ‘And then like suddenly, this third guy shows up from like nowhere and …’

Through the waterfall of messy syllables, a distinct, wet smacking noise could be heard. Tasty.

The piercing screeches made it impossible for Stiles to focus on the textbook in front of his nose. The rather vivid description of last night’s hook-up made it clear to Stiles this girl had no shame, or decency for that matter. He quickly glanced at his watch to see it strike two o’ clock. The distant chiming of the church-bell confirmed this. He rapidly packed his books and copious amounts of sheets in his back in a disorderly fashion. But before he left, a little mischievous side of him took over. He passed the chattering girl, who was currently balancing on the two rear legs of her chair, and subtly pushed against the back rest, making her lose her balance. Rapt in her explicit conversation, she failed to notice the shift in balance in time. She quickly reached for the table, missing it by just a hair, and fell down with a low thump on her back. A small gasp escaped her lips, more of surprise than of hurt. The pricy phone had fallen down as well, and now laid silently next to her. Silence reclaimed her rightful throne, even if was just for a moment. Some people may have defined the act as malign, bad-natured and destructive, but Stiles believed Justice had been served. Several fellow visitors agreed, judging by the amount of thumbs-up and grins he received. The girl bewilderedly got up with the speed of a lightning flash and pretended nothing had happened. Stiles did not stay to see her recovery. He made his way through the labyrinth of books and smoothly exited the room, steps hushed by the soft carpet that hugged his shoes. Exiting the room, he was welcomed by the cool breeze of air-conditioning.

The main hall of the library consisted of three stairways, two in the back and one near the main entrance. Each one leading to a different wing. The sun-filled oaken hall contained a rustic, homey atmosphere in contrast to the musty, dim-lighted and stuffy study rooms and upper floors, where brown carpet, probably dating from the seventies or eighties, still dutiful protected its wooden flooring. The innocuous smell of book pages enticed the visitors, luring them deep into a maze of written words. Some words are eloquent, some bring tears into your eyes, a few could be labelled ‘iffy’and others are there for the sole purpose of entertainment. And then there are the simple words; modest of nature, humble in appearance, yet deep within a profound truth is concealed. They don’t always have to be difficult in order to convey the message. It all depends on the right words. And sometimes, that is all we need to hear or read: the right words.   

Stiles seldom felt at ease in public places, but this library was special. Its meaning was special. Fond memories had nested themselves in the nooks and crannies of the old building, interwoven with some of the words found in this library. But I digress.

While descending the stairs, Stiles admitted to himself that perhaps his little deed may have been a bit too cruel, but she had been warned several times. The pang of guilt still settled unpleasantly in his chest. He stopped half way his descend, and stared at his Chuck Taylors. Should he go back and apologize?  On the other hand, the girl relentlessly continued talking, even after all the requests to be silent. Stiles sniffed his guilt out with a forceful blast and picked up a steady pace, eyes on the glass door exit. She got her just dessert, and now it was time for Stiles to get his treat and reward. The day shone with a hidden promise.

It was only a short walk to the coffee shop. A soft breeze ran through his shirt, rustling the long grass on the sides of the road, sounding the young leaves in the trees and carrying the slightest hint of manure. Not too overpowering, but just enough to let you know you were in the countryside. The spring sun gingerly gleamed on the glimmering black pavement, small clouds stitched in the opal sky. Now and then the roaring thundering of a vehicle would break through the chirping of birds. Quickly leaving the library behind him, Stiles swiftly navigated through the web of small streets, occasionally greeting a vaguely familiar face. He kept the aura of being rushed as a protective shield tightly wrapped around him, a solid excuse. Now was not the time to strike up a reminiscent conversation with a distant acquaintance. Soon he arrived at the main road.

The two-way road was an endless one, continuing far beyond the reach of Stiles’ eyes. One side of the street was occupied by blocks of apartments – new and old – contrasting the stretched-out agricultural plains on the other side. Hay bales were scattered seemingly random in the fields. A couple of cows were leisurely munching on strands of grass while lazily following the chestnut-haired boy in the blue hoodie. With nothing better to do, they kept their eyes on the young man until he took a right turn down the road with destination town square. The turn introduced a bit more civilization, the town centre: a bustling street, a large town square, quaint little shops, a church and a precious fountain, trees orderly planted in a row, cafes, buzzing cars, shoppers carrying bags filled with groceries in one hand and a young child in the other, a lone and emaciated man sitting on a bench with his dog. From Stiles’ point of view, everyone seemed to be milling about, as if they were extras on a soap opera, required to fill the set in order to get the authentic aura and feel, repeating the same actions over and over again. He squeezed through the mass, passed the small church and the little fountain in front of it. The iridescent water reflected the shy rays of gold. A hopeful child who was firmly holding onto her mother’s dress dropped a rusty coin in the fountain, waking the water and creating concentric little waves. She proudly looked at her mother with the forest in her eyes. Stiles could not help but to smile, yet a nasty ache crawled up his chest, to his heart, where the vile rodent gnawed at old scars.

The funny thing about loved ones is that they never leave us. Physically, they can disappear. Never to be seen again. We long to hug them, give them a little peck on the cheek, or just lean into them. Feel their being. Alive. Yet, on the loneliest, doleful nights, when all is dark, we still hear their laughter, smell their calming perfume, and remember them. The beauty of memories; that strange sense of heavy sorrow mixed with that familiar warmth.

Cumulus clouds gathered in the sky like an incited mob, hiding the sun behind their voluptuous bodies. A squall harassed the young leaves. Weather always tends to be a bit fickle. Changing rapidly, deteriorating. Nothing could be done. You could only wait.

Stiles pushed the ghosts that were creeping up on him away. Banishing them into the crevices of the past.  He swiftly passed mother and child and took a sharp right turn, stepping into the cold shadow of church. The undulating side street revealed a new assortment of shops and cafes. One of these little cafes was the coffee bar _Moonbucks_. The owner must have thought it to be a clever pun as it probably referred to _Starbucks_. Stiles couldn’t care less however. He loved this place for two reasons. The first being that they served great coffee and scrumptious, handmade pastries. What more could a caffeine-addicted student want? Although the products could be labelled as pricey, you got a bang for the buck. Homemade products can’t hold a candle to the toxic mass-produces of international chains, wouldn’t you say? The second reason had to do with someone working at said coffeehouse. One of the baristas happened to be one of the most gorgeous men Stiles had ever seen. Some of his friends agreed that that one particular barista was not too shabby, but they didn’t see what all the fuss was about. Good, no competition for me then, he thought on those occasions.

Before he entered the quaint coffee shop, Stiles texted Lydia, a long-time friend and intellectual partner-in-crime, asking to join him. He’d go a sit in the establishment anyway, but a conversation partner was always a nice addition to an even nicer cup of caramel macchiato with an extra shot of toffee nut syrup.

 _Moonbucks_ wasn’t a large coffeehouse, but big enough to provide comfortable seating for fifteen people. Stiles arrived before the rush hour, and most of the seats were empty. Only two chairs in the back were taken by an elderly couple who were fondly looking at each other over their steaming cups of chocolate. Stiles’ previously glum state of mind was lifted up to cloud nine when he saw his favourite barista standing behind the counter with his trademark pensive look.

‘Hi, a ..’

‘Medium caramel macchiato, extra shot of toffee syrup, extra whipped cream on top. Coming right up.’

Not even a smile, just a quick meeting of brown with green. Just another monotonous order. Still as sour as ever, Stiles thought. Maybe I am the kind of guy who falls for the emotionally unavailable men, or even worse, straight guys? The barista had turned his back to him, making his delicious treat. Stiles did not know what to think of the mysterious man behind the counter; on the one hand, the dark-haired barista knew his order by heart. On the other hand, he did not as much as flinch when reciting the order as if it was a mathematical formula: no embellishments, no extras, just the bare necessities and an unyielding look free of charge. The worst part of it all was that Stiles still did not know the name of the mysterious man. He never wore a nametag. Perhaps on purpose? He never had the guts to ask for his name.

Stiles’ eyes wandered the shop, looking for the best seat. Maybe by the window. Eventually his gaze was drawn again to the old couple. They were holding hands. A pair of hands was shaking, the other hands were steady and comforting. The woman, the snow on her head wrapped in a bun, had a tearful look.

‘Your order.’

Stiles grabbed in his pockets, reaching for his wallet. The barista kept a stern look on Stiles, as if he had been a naughty child who had been caught red-handed trying to steal a piece of candy.

‘It’s on the house.’

And with that little phrase having been uttered, Stiles was confused.

-

Lydia Martin was not a fan of out of the blue invitations, usually not batting an eye when promptly deleting them. For Stiles, however, she’d make an exception.

Lydia Martin would be described as a callous person by people who did not know her. It is true that she was not one to easily show emotions, or to adopt a caring attitude towards just any person. She usually had a serious expression on her face and a fierce, burning look in her eyes that complimented her fiery hair. She was by no means a rude person; Stiles would describe her as sassy yet decorous. Still, beneath that volcanic surface was a magnanimous person, not afraid to reach out and help those who needed it.

Red stilettos clicked on the fractured pavement. It was a veritable challenge crossing the worn-down town square in high heels without stumbling or tripping, yet Lydia walked elegantly over the miniature fissures. The centre of Beacon Hills was quiet. Here and there were the occasional shoppers, leisurely peering inside shop windows.

Arriving at the cosy side street, she already saw Stiles sitting near the window, sipping his beverage gloomily. The bar was empty, except for Stiles and the barista, who was currently occupied cleaning some mixers. Lydia made her way to the counter, ordering a small black coffee. A timeless classic. The handsome man swiftly returned with her order.

‘Two-fifty, please.’ Quick and efficient. Lydia thanked him and gave him a sly smirk before turning her back to him. The barista adopted a confused look.

‘Sulking is not a flattering a look.’ Lydia landed on the seat next to Stiles. A smile immediately graced his features.

‘Everything’s better now that you’re here.’ It was a tragic fact of life that Stiles was a smooth-talker when it came to girls. Girls he knew to be more precise. Whenever he was confronted with a stranger, be it a male other than his best friend or an unknown girl, he’d spontaneously turn into a verbal spaz.

‘What’s the status report on the hot coffee-guy? Did you guys finally give each other the romantic proclamation of love that is overly due?’

‘Not exactly. He did say my drink was on the house. Could that mean anything?’ Stiles whispered conspiringly.

It baffled Lydia that one of her closest friends could be this dense.

‘Hmm, who knows?’ a slight tangy undertone laced her remark. The callowness of Stiles could irritate her senselessly from time to time. Lydia was not really in the mood to be swept away by Stiles’ uncertainties so she decided to play along in the mystery created by Stiles and answered every question and probability Stiles barraged her with, with a nondescript, vague reply such has ‘uhum’, ‘who knows’, ‘maybe’ and ‘you’re totally right’. Lydia hated using the word ‘totally’. It made her sound juvenile, she believed.

Lydia let her eyes wander the little café **.** The shop was a mixture of old and new; the entire establishment was being supported by oaken support beams and pillars. The minimalist hanging lamps were modern and nicely complemented the wooden architecture. There was an abundance of afternoon light twirling inside, floating in through the large windows on the side of the main street. Little specks of golden dust danced in the twilight air. Her attention was drawn to a bright yellow poster with green lettering. Stiles, still engrossed in the analysing of the exact meaning of the free coffee, was abruptly halted by Lydia.

‘Have you seen that advertisement over there?’ Cutting off the potentially endless jabbering of Stiles.

‘Which advertisement?’ Stiles was feverishly turning his head left and right, trying to locate the piece of paper.

Lydia pointed towards a wooden pillar near the entrance. A stack of sunny pamphlets with the same grassy printing, just like its big brother, were spread out invitingly on a small wooden table just below the poster.

‘Be right back.’ She rose quickly, and in a heartbeat she was standing in front of Stiles with two bright leaflets in her hands. The colours were a bit too lurid for Stiles’ tastes, but he kept the thought to himself. A first, cursory look made it clear it was a recruitment flyer.

‘Hale Summer Camp? Never heard of it.’ Stiles quickly dismissed the leaflet and its contents whereas Lydia was reading the leaflet with rapt attention.

‘Hold on, don’t be so rash of judgement,’ Lydia began ‘this actually seems like an interesting experience. Look,’ she pointed at the bottom lines ‘they are looking for people to teach at the summer camp.’

Stiles attention was promptly directed back to his abandoned pamphlet. The summer camp project is looking for passionate, open-minded humans who are available in the month of July to teach gifted children and young adolescents. The subjects being offered at camp are diverse: mathematics, chemistry, biology, philosophy, literature, and many more – so it said on the leaflet. The Hale Summer Camp project was not only looking for teachers, however. They were also recruiting assistants to help with any sport-related activities, to give drama or music classes that were also being held at Hale Camp. The backside of the leaflet referred the reader to the Hale Camp website for more information and the registration form.

‘Gifted children?’ Stiles dubiously wondered aloud ‘Don’t you have to be a genius yourself to teach them then?’

‘They’re looking for university students, so I believe we meet the requirements.’ Lydia confidently replied ‘Besides, it seems like an interesting experience. I’m going to apply. Never hurts trying.’ She took a long sip from her cup.

‘Odd phrasing though, open-minded humans. What else would they be expecting? Little green men from Mars?’ Stiles chuckled at his own lame joke. Lydia just shrugged her shoulders and let out a noncommittal grunt, sipping from her cup and looking at the barista, who was staring at them. He caught Lydia’s gaze and rapidly turned his back and started to clean some mugs.

‘Why are you frowning?’ Enquired Stiles.

‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ She dismissed Stiles question and drew his attention back to a more pressing matter ‘so, when are you going to give your number to Mr Sexy over there?’ Stiles choked on his coffee.

\--

Application form conundrum 

The rest of Stiles and Lydia’s coffee-date was filled with intimate chatter about university, deadlines for papers and essays, weird-smelling professors and the odd girl they often saw at the campus who never wore shoes and used her socks as mittens.

Before leaving, Lydia persuaded Stiles to at least, in Lydia’s words ‘make his intentions known’ to the dark barista he was perhaps interested in him. At first, Stiles was hesitant, not sure what he should do to drop a hint.

‘Should I wink? Maybe flash him my non-existent abs? Oooh, do you perhaps have a lollypop? Then I’d…’

Lydia just realized she had made a huge mistake letting Stiles’ fantasy take over.

‘Just give him a little smile. A coy smile perhaps? If you want to be a little bit more risky you could wink. But seeing you don’t have the balls to do that, I’d go with a little smile. And be sure to make eye contact! Ready?’

Stiles could feel his heart pound between his ears and his mouth was a bit dry. He stood up and walked towards the exit. He let Lydia pass him first, before going through the door himself, he turned around, instantly locking eyes with Mr Moody. Stiles took a deep breath and gave the barista a sweet smile.

The man behind the counter did not reciprocate smile, it was a smirk, and added a wink free of charge.

Stiles tripped when he exited, and Lydia couldn’t help but laugh.

 

 

                                               


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update time :)
> 
> University is starting again tomorrow, so I'm sorry if my update schedule will be a bit odd. I will try to regularise it soon! 
> 
> Please check out my other stories too. :)  
> My apologies for any lingering mistakes, unbeta'd.  
> Enjoy!

He could not stop fidgeting and squirming, unconsciously rubbing the sweaty palms of his hands against the fabric of his black trousers. His feet tapping rhythmically with the ticking of the clock hanging on the wall behind him. Stiles was currently occupying one of the many grey seats in the lobby of the Hale Summer Camps headquarters.He could feel the little beads of sweat forming underneath his pits, and rolling down the sides of his chest.His mouth was dry and his heart was racing. The queasy feeling that had settled in his stomach grew worse with every passing second. He tried to calm himself down by reciting all digits of pi he knew. Needless to say, the tactic did not last long as his thoughts were already wandering off to another corner of his mind after citing only five numbers. Trying to control the raging nerves, he observed his surroundings.

The walls were painted in a soothing blue colour that complemented the grey chairs and that reminded him of a clear ocean. At the desk sat a young blonde woman, furiously typing away on her computer. Every few minutes she would look up from behind the computer to look at the brown-haired boy who was frantically rubbing his hands against his legs.

“Are you alright?” she started “Keep rubbing and you’ll get a friction burn.”

The boy just looked at her like a deer caught in headlights.

“Ease up, relax a bit. They’ll never hire a ball of stress.” She turned her attention to the computer screen “Stiles Stilinksi?”

“Yeah?” Stiles’ voice croaked. Erica took a good look at the boy. He had passed his juvenile years, but was not quite a man yet. Inexperience clung to him desperately.

“Relax.”

“Easy for you to say. You already got a job. And I really want to get this teacher position, even if it’s just a summer job, it will still look nice on my resume. Although, that’s not the reason I’m applying. I love kids, and I’m thinking of becoming a teacher. So, what better way to see if I’m on the right track? If I get hired, that is.” 

This spurt of words kept going for another solid five minutes. The receptionist could only gape at the stream of words that without any warning gushed out of the boy’s mouth. Her surprised look, however, was quickly replaced by a satisfied grin. Stiles, after this verbal waterfall, looked a lot more comfortable and self-assured. He had also stopped the neurotic rubbing of his hands. She decided to ask more questions. With each question Stiles seemed to regain more confidence and a brilliant spark of passion ignited in his eyes as he began to speak with more vivacity. She learned he was a university student reading English literature and linguistics at Beacon Hill University, that his favourite book was _Atonement_ by McEwan – but he also loved _Alice in Wonderland_ \- and that his best friend was named Scott. Stiles, however, realized that he had been hogging the floor all to himself.

“Look at me, babbling on,” He let out a little laughter “What’s your name?”

“Erica.” A sudden bleeping noise drew her attention swiftly to the monitor.

“I’d tell you my whole life story but it seems Talia is ready to see you now. Follow me please.”

Stiles was about to ask who Talia exactly was when Erica stood up and motioned Stiles to do the same. She opened the door adjacent to her desk, revealing a long, broad corridor.

“I can’t leave my post, but Talia’s office is easy to find. Just go to the end of the corridor and then turn right. It’s the only office. You can’t miss it.”

“End of the hall, go right. Got it.” Stiles nodded confidently. Before he continued any further, he turned around and faced Erica, thanking her. She told him it was nothing and wished him good luck. Stiles took his first steps and heard the door close behind his back. The hall was painted in the same hue of blue as the lobby, yet it did not comfort Stiles as it had before. Instead it fed the growing melancholic feeling inside his chest. Stiles’ footsteps echoed throughout the lonely hall. An empty vase stood at the end. On both sides of the hallway hung framed pictures, each one depicting a summer camp from a previous year. The groups mostly consisted of thirty children to fifty children, Stiles estimated, accompanied by fifteen staff members. As he wandered through the hall he paused at every picture, taking in the happy faces. He was almost at the end of the corridor when he stopped and lingered a little longer at one particular photo. The photograph was taken in front of a Victorian castle. All the people posing in the picture had the same dark coloured hair and resembled one another. A little wooden plaque under the picture read _Westmore – 2000_. One of the faces seemed familiar to him. He couldn’t put his finger on it. In hindsight, he should have know.

“I see you’re admiring our pictures.”  Stiles turned to see to whom the husky voice belonged. Next to him stood a tall woman with a proud glow around her.

“I’d love to tell you the story behind each picture, but I believe we’ve got an interview first. Follow me, please.”

Stiles was left speechless for a moment, obediently following. The woman beamed authority. Her smooth chestnut hair bounced on her shoulders as they walked towards her office. The clicking of her heels and the sound of his own footsteps reverberated harmoniously through the hallway, dispelling the eerie silence that had haunted the great corridor and Stiles a few moments ago.

Stiles was unsure if he could speak or was to remain silent until they arrived at Talia’s office. He decided there was no harm in trying.

“So, am I right to assume you’re Talia?” he asked tentatively. They entered a spacious office when she turned to him, smiling in the process.

“Correct. Talia Hale. Please take a seat.” She said, directing him to a rather comfy chair.

“So,” Began Talia in a business-like tone “You’re applying for a teaching position at our summer camps, correct?” Her eyes skimmed the paper in front of her. From where Stiles was sitting, he could recognize the green heading of the sheet; it was his application form he had send three months prior. “Have you ever taught a class before?”

It was the question Stiles had feared. While he always had imagined him becoming a teacher, he had never stood in front of a class before. But how could he have? He was only twenty years old. He was still obtaining his degree. While the despicable thought of lying crossed his mind, he decided he’d better tell the truth, as he’d only harm himself if he’d start spinning a web of lies.

“Well, no. I’m still in the process of getting degree.” He began somewhat uncertain, but soon found a steady ground “But that does not mean haven’t taught people! I’ve helped a lot of my friends when they had trouble with a certain course. Especially during my second year and Beacon High Uni.” A small smile crept across his mouth when reminiscing that specific year.

“It seemed everyone has having trouble with Advanced English Grammar, and I was the only one who grasped the material. So I decided to hold tutoring sessions in my dorm room.”

“And how did that go?” Talia seemed genuinely interested in his story. Stiles continued enthusiastically.

“It went great. I tutored on Thursday evenings, usually five or six people turned up. They would ask the questions and I’d try and help them as best as I could. In the end, everyone passed the final exam.”

Talia noticed Stiles was practically beaming with pride.

“Did you charge your fellow students?”

“Nah, I had fun doing it. To be honest, it hadn’t crossed my mind until now that I could’ve charged them.”

“Well, from what I’ve gathered so far, your heart and brain are in the right place. Now, as you might have heard Hale Summer Camps is quite a prestigious project. Our camps are known for their quality. Unlike other camps, we focus on a particular group of children.”

“Gifted children, correct?” replied Stiles.

“Indeed, you are. These children are,’ Talia paused shortly, stressing the following word ‘special. So their wants will be a bit different from other children. Our summer camp tries to accommodate those needs **.** Are you still following?”

Stiles could only nod. His mouth had run dry, and the sick feeling had once again found its way to the pit of his stomach. He knew if he’d be hired, then he’d be teaching gifted children, but what if those prodigies were higher on the intellectual food chain than he was? All the confidence that he possessed just a moment ago began to drain out of his body under the iron gaze of Ms Hale.

“I can see you worrying. Having second thoughts applying for the position?”

If Talia Hale herself was having any doubt about hiring Stiles, she was not showing them. Uncertainty settled deeper in Stiles’ mind. He stared outside the window, which revealed a large green meadow, contrasted by a busy highway. Window, perhaps, not being the right word, since it occupied the entire left wall. Gazing in the distance, focussing on the copse in the distance he asked himself the same question: “Am I having any second thoughts?”

‘Teaching prodigies is a great responsibility. I am just a university student. I’m not really sure if I’m qualified teaching incredibly intelligent kids. What if I’m not good enough?’

Ms Hale let out a low, warm laugh, making Stiles think he had just made a fool out of himself.

‘I’ll let you in on a little secret, Stiles. Most prodigies are usually very passionate about their gift, but finding individuals who are equally passionate about helping those children is quite hard. I believe you are one of those individuals we at Hale Summer Camp are looking for.’

‘I’ll take your word for it then.’ Replied Stiles, who now regained some of his poise.

‘Also, I never mentioned prodigies. We deal with gifted children. There is a difference. Please remember that. That also brings me to another topic I wanted to discuss. One of the hiring requirements expects that our applicants to be open-minded. Are you?’ Talia’s voice turned stern.

‘Of course!’ Answered Stiles who was taken aback by the sudden switch in tone. The peculiarity of the question escaped him.

‘Hale Summer Camps organizes training weeks for both the teachers, who will be teaching, and the assistants, who will be planning and organizing all the camp activities. If you feel you’re not up to the task after the week, you can still back out. However, we do expect some discretion. Therefore your contract will include a clause restricting any mentioning of certain aspects of our camps, or the participants.’

Talia took a deep breath, turned her attention once more to the papers which were now lying in front of her.

‘Any more doubts?’

The amount of information Stiles just heard made his head spin. Not to mention the entire clause thing sounded a bit fishy too him. Nevertheless, the warm and trusting look that had returned to Talia’s face oddly reassured him.

‘No, ma’am.’

‘Good. I’ll let Erica draw up a preliminary contract. After you have finished your training week you will be officially hired if you still want to work with us.’

She extended her hand and Stiles met her with a firm shake, secretly hoping she’d not be disgusted by the exuberant amount of sweat on his palm. Stiles still was a bit troubled by the fact that Talia Hale kept stressing the fact that the children were ‘gifted’. The entire open-mindedness and discretion clause also seemed iffy to him. However, he soon dismissed those things as a just a little quirk. Nothing important. Maybe Hale Camps worked with kids of celebrities or incredibly rich people. Stiles couldn’t have been more wrong.

\-----------

It was a rather cold and rainy day when Stiles received his invitation for the training weekend. With sleep still in his eyes, he left the comfort of his bed. The rain was beating against the window, and the occasional rumble of thunder filled the empty house. Stiles made his way downstairs, barefooted, stubbing his toe twice against a sharp corner. Cursing under his breath, he tried to find the light switch. His look was drawn to the digital clock, which read eight thirty. His father had already left and left a note behind with a little message. Some habits never die. Next to the short message was a simple envelop adorned with the Hale Camp logo. It could wait. Stiles made his way to the coffee machine, and watched the raindrops roll down the window while waiting for his shot of caffeine. After a rejuvenating sip, he turned his attention to the non-threatening letter in front on the kitchen counter. The letter itself held no shocking revelations or new information. Included was the date and place of the training. Training would take place in five days from now at the local high school.

“Always fun to have things planned in advance to then suddenly cancel them.”  The empty house answered his sarcasm with a low moan of creaking wood.

Attached to the letter was an extra sheet: a list of all the participants. And this little piece of paper did manage to surprise Stiles. In between the printed names of Randy Mennes and Susan Paperson stood an oddly familiar name. The meaning of what this precise name was doing on the list slipped his mind, but he’d find out soon enough. Stiles quickly ran back to his room to dig out his phone from a pile of old clothes. The display of his mobile announced it was only nine in the morning. He realized he’d probably be calling someone who was still in bed, but the severity of the situation was too high. Stiles pressed the speed-dial and counted the drops of rain on his window while the phone was ringing. After thirty second he heard a sleepy voice answer reluctantly.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Each syllable must have cost a major amount of energy, Stiles presumed, because that entire sentence cost about a minute to deliver.

“In fact, I do. Nine. Oh, look at that, one past nine now. But something just popped up. Your name on the list of participants in the Hale Summer Camp training week. Care to explain that, Scott McCall?” Stiles replied in a faux-mad voice.

Scott swore under his breath, followed by a wild river of apologies. He kept repeating how it had slipped his mind. Through the entire explanation of how and why he had forgotten to mention his recent employment, Stiles kept rolling his eyes and started picking at a loose sliver of paint at the edge of his window. Under the barrage of apologies, Stiles wondered if he was tricking himself by replying with a feigned annoyance.

Of course, he forgot. Scott was a good guy.  Not someone who would willingly keep such a vital piece of information from Stiles. Would he?

“Sure you did. Are you coming over later today? And I don’t accept any other answer than yes.” He continued in a mock-hurt voice “I don’t think I can handle the secret and lies anymore.”

“I’ll bring the videogames?”

“Good boy! See ya later!”

Even though Scott sounded genuinely when he said he had forgotten he applied for the same camp project, Stiles still felt the bitter sting of annoyance that Scott had failed to tell him he also enrolled for the summer camp project. He might have applied even sooner than Stiles. This, of course, was all pure conjecture. Maybe Scott was planning a betrayal? Stiles dismissed the ludicrous thought immediately, but still threw his phone away with a more vigour than required. He had known Scott since they were babies, playmates. A betrayal would never rise its ugly head.

The storm outside abated and became a soft drizzle.  The dark intensity with which the clouds were ominously storming the heavens was now fading into a harmless, nondescript colour of grey. Stiles tried to empty his mind of any dark, scornful thoughts while returning downstairs to finish his now lukewarm coffee. 


End file.
